The person charging this material is re-
sponsible for its return on or before the
Latest Date stamped below.

Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books
are reasons for disciplinary action and may
result in dismissal from the University.

University of Illinois Library

MAR 2 0

Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2017 with funding from

University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates

https://archive.org/details/banksofwyepoeminOObloo

\

FPOJSTTIS PIE C E

page $3.

■VTETW" of tiie 17 SX through a GAT

I ondcmSublishal by £ &£- G-osby &

OSH - -> ^ &

<C *

THE

BANKS OF WYE;

A POEM.

IN FOUR BOOKS.

BY ROBERT BLOOMFIELD,

AUTHOR OF THE FARMER’S BOY, &c.

SECOND EDITION, CORRECTED.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR B. AND R. CROSBY AND CO.

LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN; JOHN
WALKER; DARTON AND HERVEY ; AND
THE AUTHOR

.-W4i

181-3.

. If- ^

o

J. Sican, Printer , 76, Fleet Street, London .

4. &£? niarst

TO

V $\3

THOMAS JOHN LLOYD BAKER, , .ESQ.

OF STOUT’S HILL, ULEY,

AND HIS EXCELLENT LADY;

AND

ROBERT BRANS BY COOPER , ESQ,

OF FERNEY HILL, DURSLEY,

IN THE COUNTY OF GLOUCESTER,

AND ALL THE MEMBERS OF HIS FAMILY',

THIS JOURNAL

IS DEDICATED,

Oc

WITH SENTIMENTS OF HIGH ESTEEM,

AND A LIVELY RECOLLECTION OF PAST PLEASURES,
BY THEIR HUMBLE SERVANT,

Vi

K

; 4

'j. V/5

£*>

THE AUTHOR.

In the summer of 1807, a party of my good friends
in Gloucestershire, proposed to themselves a short
excursion down the Wye, and through part of
South Wales.

While this plan was in agitation, the lines which
I had composed on “ Shooter’s Hill," during ill
health, and inserted in my last volume, obtained
their particular attention. A spirit of prediction,
as well as sorrow, is there indulged; and it was
now in the power of this happy party to falsify such
predictions, and to render a pleasure to the writer
of no common kind. An invitation to accompany

PREFACE.

vi

them was the consequence; and the following Jour-
nal is the result of that invitation.

Should the reader, from being a resident, or fre-
quent visitor, be well acquainted with the route,
and able to discover inaccuracies in distances, suc-
cession of objects, or local particulars, he is re-
quested to recollect, that the party was out but ten
days; a period much too short for correct a id la-
borious description, but quite sufficient for all the
powers of poetry which I feel capable of exerting.
The whole exhibits the language and feelings of a
man who had never before seen a mountainous
country ; and of this it is highly necessary that the
reader should be apprized.

A Swiss, or perhaps a Scottish Highlander, may
smile at supposed or real exaggerations ; but they
will be excellent critics, when they call to mind

PREFACE.

that they themselves judge, in these cases, as I do,
by comparison.

Perhaps it may be said, that because much of
public approbation has fallen to my lot, it was un-
wise to venture again. I confess that the journey
left such powerful, such unconquerable impres-
sions on my mind, that embodying my thoughts in
rhyme became a matter almost of necessity. To
the parties concerned I know it will be an accept-
able little volume: to whom, and to the public, it
is submitted with due respect.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD,

City Roady London y
June 30, 1811

ADVERTISEMENT

TO

THE SECOND EDITION.

When this Poem , or Journal , was submitted to
the Public, I endeavoured to meet that confined
and temporary approbation, which its locality in-
duced me to expect. It is, therefore, with no
small pleasure that I have, thus, in a Second Edi-
tion, the power of correcting, and I hope amend-
ing, this favourite of my fancy, this gem of my
memory, which flashes upon me still like the sun-
shine of Spring .

1 have seen no regular critique on the piece,
strange as it may appear, (for l have left Lon-
don,) and consequently , in the present instance,
have not the advantage of public criticism.

The Lady whose name appears in the Dedi-
cation is no more; she was a wife and a mother,
in their truest sense. And, it is sufficient for me
to say, that she possessed the character which
distinguishes her uncle, the venerable Granville
Sharp.

In my own family, I have sustained the loss of
my second daughter, in her twentieth year;
yet, while Providence grants me peace of mind .
I enjoy repose, and am, the Reader’s

Obedient,

R. R.

Shefford , Beds ,

April 7,1813.

THE BANKS OF WYE

BOOK I.

CONTENTS OF BOOK I.

The Vale of Uley. — Forest of Dean.— Ross.— Wilton
Castle — Goodrich Castle. — Courtfield, Welch Bick-
nor, Coldwell. — Gleaner’s Song. — Cold well Rocks. —
Symmon’s Yat. —Great Doward.— New Wier. — Mar-
tin’s Well.— The Coracle — Arrival at Monmouth.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

BOOK I.

“ Rouse from thy slumber. Pleasure calls, arise.
Quit thy half-rural bower, a while despise
The thraldom that consumes thee. We who dwell
Far from thy land of smoke, advise thee well.

Here Nature's bounteous hand around shall fling.
Scenes that thy Muse hath never dar'd to sing.
When sickness weigh’d thee down,and strengt h declin’d ;
W hen dread eternity absorb'd thy mind.

Flow'd the predicting verse, by gloom o'erspread.

That 'Cambrian mountains’ thousliouldst never treads
That ' time-worn cliff*, and classic stream to see/
Was wealth's prerogative, despair for thee.

4

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Come to the proof; with us the breeze inhale, 13
Renounce despair, and come to Severn’s vale ;

And where the Cots wold Hills are stretch’d along.
Seek our green dell, as yet unknown to song :

Start hence with us, and trace, with raptur’d eye,
The wild meander ings of the beauteous Wye;

Thy ten days leisure ten days joy shall prove.

And rock and stream breathe amity and love.”

Such was the call ; with instant ardour hail’d.

The syren Pleasure enroll’d and prevail’d;

Soon the deep dell appear’d, and the clear brow
Of Uley Bury* smiled o’er ali below.

O’er mansion, flock, and circling woods that hung
Round the sweet pastures where the sky-lark sung.

* Bury> or Burg, tlie Saxon name for a hill, particularly
for one wholly or partially formed by art. Uley Bury, from

THE BANKS OF WYE

5

O for the fancy, vigorous and sublime, 27

Chaste as the theme, to triumph over time l
Bright as the rising day, and firm as truth.

To speak new transports to the lowland youth.
That bosoms still might throb, and still adore.
When his who strives to charm them beats no more !

One August morn,: with spirits high,

Sound health, bright hopes, and cloudless sky,
A cheerful group their farewell bade
To Dursley tower, to Uley’s shade;

tlie singular valley below, embosoming Uley'and Oulpen>
is an eminence of singular beauty, crowned by intrench-
mciits; though in itself but a kind of termination of the
Cotswold Hills, in which character Slinchcombe takes the
leadj and both command a vast prospect over the Se*
vern and the mountains of South Wales.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

4

And where bold Stinchcombe’s greenwood side
Heaves in the van of highland pride, 38

Scour’d the broad vale of Severn; where
The foes of verse shall never dare
Genius to scorn, or bound its power.

There bloodstain’d Berkeley’s turrets low’r*

A name that cannot pass away.

Till time forgets “the Bard” of Gray.

Quitting fair Glo’ster’s northern road,

To gain the pass of Framilode,

Before us Dean’s black forest spread.

And May Hill, with his tufted head,,

Beyond the ebbing tide appear’d;

And Cambria’s distant mountains rear’d
Their dark blue summits far away;

And Severn, ’midst the burning day.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

«

Curv’d his bright line, and bore along
The mingled Avon, pride of song.

The trembling steeds soon ferry’d o’er.
Neigh’d loud upon the forest shore;
Domains that once, at early morn.

Rang to the hunter’s bugle horn.

When barons proud would bound away;

And even kings would hail the day.

When crested chiefs their bright-arm’d train
Of javelin’d horsemen rous’d amain.

And chasing wide the wolf or boar.

Bade the deep woodland valleys roar.

But we no dang’rous chace pursu’d;

Sound wheels and hoofs their tasks renew’d;
Behind roll’d Severn, gleaming far.

Around us roar’d no Sylvan war.

53

8

THE BANKS OF WYE.

’Mid depths of shade, gay sunbeams broke
Through noble Flaxley’s bow’rs of oak;
And many a cottage, trim and gay.
Whisper’d delight through all the way;

On hills expos’d, in dells unseen.

To patriarchal Mitchel Deai*.
Rose-cheek’d Pomona here was queen.
Though Ceres edg’d her fields between.
And on each hill-top, mounted high.

Her sickle wav’d in extasy;

Till Ross, thy charms all hearts confess’d.
Thy peaceful walks, thy hours of rest
And contemplation. Here the mind*

(Its usual luggage left behind,)

Feels all its dormant fires revive.

And sees “the Man of Ross'3 alive;

69

THE BANKS OF WYE.

&

And hears the Twickenham Bard again, 85

To Kyrle’s high virtues lift his strain $

Whose own hand cloth’d this far-fanYd hill
With reverend elms, that shade us still;

Whose memory shall survive the day.

When elms and empires feel decay.

Kyrle die, by Bard ennobled? Never,

The Man of Ross , shall live for ever;

And long that spire shall time defy.

To grace the flowh-y -margin’d Wye,

Scene of the morrow’s joy, that prest
Its unseen beauties on our rest*

In dreams ; but who of dreams would tell.

Where truth sustains the song so well*?

* The carriages were sent forward to meet the party
at Chepstow.

10 THE BANKS OF WYE.

The morrow came, and Beauty's eye
Ne’er beam’d upon a lovelier sky;
Imagination instant brought.

And dash’d, amidst the train of thought.
Tints of the how. The boatman stript;
Glee at the helm exulting tript.

And wav’d her flower-encircled wand,

“ Away, away, to Fairy Land.”

Light dipt the oars ; but who can name
The various objects dear to fame.

That changing, doubling, wild, and strong.
Demand the noblest powers of songp
Then, O forgive the vagrant Muse,

Ye who the sweets of Nature chuse;

And thou, whom destiny hath tied
To this romantic river’s side, ,

99

THE BANKS OF WYE.

11

Down gazing from each close retreat, 115^

On boats that glide beneath thy feet.

Forgive the stranger’s meagre line.

That seems to slight that spot of thine;

For he, alas ! coaid only glean
The changeful outlines of the scene;

A momentary bliss ; and here

Links memory’s power with rapture’s tear.

Who curb’d the barons’ kingly power*?
Let hist’ry tell that fateful hour

* Henry the Seventh gave an irrevocable blow to the
dangerous privileges assumed by the barons, in abolish-
ing liveries and retainers, by which every malefactor
could shelter himself from the law, on assuming a no-
bleman’s livery, and attending his person. And as a
finishing stroke to the feudal tenures, an act was passed,
by which the barons and gentlemen of landed interest

13

THE BANKS OF WYE.

At home, when surly winds shall roar, 125

And prudence shut the study door.

De Wilton’s here of mighty name.

The whelming flood, the summer stream.

Mark’d from their towers. — The fabric fails.

The rubbish of their splendid halls.

Time in his march hath scatter’d wide.

And blank oblivion strives to hide* *.

A while the grazing herd was seen.

And trembling willow’s silver green,

Till the fantastic current stood.

In line direct for Pencraig Wood;

were at liberty to sell and mortgage their lands, without
fines or licences for the alienation.

* The ruins of Wilton Castle stand on the opposite
side of the river, nearly fronting the town of Ross.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

13

Whose bold green summit welcome bade, 137
Then rear’d behind his nodding shade.

Here, as the light boat skimm’d along.

The clarionet, and chosen song,

(That mellow, wild, Eolian lay,

“ Sweet in the Woodlands,”) roll’d away
Their echoes down the stream, that bore
Each dying close to every shore.

And forward Cape, and woody range.

That form the never-ceasing change.

To him who floating, void of care.

Twirls with the stream, he knows not where.

Till bold, impressive, and sublime.

Gleam’d all that’s left by storms and time
Of Goodrich Towers. The mould’ring pile
Tells noble truths, — but dies the while.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

14

O'er the steep path, through brake and brier, 153
His batter’d turrets still aspire.

In rude magnificence. ’Twas here
Lancastrian Henry spread his cheer.

When came the news that Hal was born.

And Monmouth hail’d th’ auspicious mom 3
A boy in sports, a prince in war.

Wisdom and valour crown’d his car;

Of France the terror, England’s glory.

As Stratford’s bard has told the story.

No butler’s proxies snore supine.

Where the old monarch kept his wine;

No Welch ox roasting, horns and all.

Adorns his throng’d and laughing hall;

But where he pray’d, and told his beads,

A thriving ash luxuriant spreads.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

1ft

No wheels by piecemeal brought the pile; 169
No barks embowePd Portland Isle;

Dig, cried experience, dig away.

Bring the firm quarry into day.

The excavation still shall save
Those ramparts which its entrails gave.

“ Here Kings shall dwell,” the builders cry’d,

“ Here England's foes shall low’r their pride;
ee Hither shall suppliant nobles come,

“ And this be England’s Royal home."

Vain hope! for on the Gwentian shore.

The regal banner streams no more !

Nettles, and vilest weeds that grow.

To mock poor grandeur’s head laid low.

Creep round the turrets valour rais’d.

And flaunt where youth and beauty gaz’d.

16

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Here fain would strangers loiter long, 1S£

And muse as Fancy’s woof grows strong;

Yet cold the heart that could complain,

Where Pollett* struck his oars again;

For lovely as the sleeping child.

The stream glides on sublimely wild,

In perfect beauty, perfect ease.

— The awning trembled in the breeze.

And scarcely trembled, as we stood

For Ruerdean Spire and Bishop’s Wood.

The fair domains of CouRTFiELDf made
A paradise of mingled shade

* The boatman.

f A seat belonging to the family of Vaughan, which is not
unnoticed in the pages of history. According to tradi-
tion, it is the place where Henry the Fifth was nursed,

THE BANKS OF WYE.

1?

Round Bicknoii’s tiny church, that cowers 19/
Beneath his host of woodland bowers.

But who the charm of words shall ding'.

O’er Raven Cliff, and Coldwell Spring,

To brighten the unconscious eye.

And wake the soul to extasy ?

Noon scorch’d the fields; the boat lay to;

The dripping oars had nought to do.

Where round us rose a scene that might
Enchant an idiot — glorious sight!

under the care of the Countess of Salisbury, from which
circumstance the original name of Grayfield is said to
have been changed to Courtfield* *.

* This is probably an erroneous tradition; for Court was a com-
mon uame for a manor-house, where the lord of the manor held hi*
court. — Coxe's Monmouth.

18

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Here, in one gay aceord’ng mind.

Upon the sparkling stream we din’d;

As shepherds free on mountain heath.

Free as the fish that watch’d beneath
For falling crumbs, where cooling lay
The wine that cheer’d us on our way.

Th’ unruffled bosom of the stream
Gave every tint and every gleam ;

Gave shadowy rocks, and clear blue sky.
And double clouds of various dye ;

Gave dark green woods, or russet brown.
And pendant corn-fields, upside down.

A troop of gleaners -chang’d their shade,
And ’twas a change by music made;

For slowly to the brink they drew.

To mark our joy, and share it too.

207

the banks of wye.

?§

How oft, ill childhood’s flow’ry days, 22$

l ve heard the wild impassion’d lays
Of such a group, lays strange and new.

And thought, was ever song so true ?

When from the hazel’s cool retreat.

They watch’d the summer’s trembling heat;

And through the boughs rude urchins play’d.

Where matrons, round the laughing maid,

Prest the long grass beneath! And here
Perhaps they shar’d an equal cheer;

Enjoy’d the feast with equal glee.

And rais’d the song of revelry :

Yet half abash’d, reserv’d, and shy .

Watch’d till the strangers glided by.

20

THE BANKS OF WYE.

GLEANER'S SONG

Dear Ellen, your tales are all plenteously stor’d.
With the joys of some bride, and the wealth of her lord:

Of her chariots and dresses, 239

And worldly caresses.

And servants that fiy when she’s waited upon :

But what can she boast if she weds unbelov’d?

Can she e’er feel the joy that one morning I prov’d.
When I put on my new-gown and waited for John?

These fields, my dear Ellen, I knew them of yore,
Yet to me they ne’er look’d so enchanting before.;
The distant bells ringing,

THE BANKS OF WYE.

21

For pleasure is pure when affection is won; 249
They told me the troubles and cares of a wife ;

But I lovM him ; and that was the pride of my life.
When I put on my new-gown and waited for John.

He shouted and ran, as he leapt from the stile;

And what in my bosom was passing the while ?

For love knows the blessing
Of ardent caressing.

When virtue inspires us, and doubts are all gone.
The sunshine of Fortune you say is divine;

True love and the sunshine of Nature were mine.
When I put on my new-gown and waited for John*

Never could spot be suited less
To bear memorials of distress ^

THE BANKS OF WYE.

None, cries the sage, more fit is found, 263

They strike at once a double wound;

Humiliation bids you sigh.

And think of poor mortality.

Close on the bank, and half overgrown.

Beneath a dark wood’s sombrous frown,,

A monumental stone appears.

Of one who in his blooming years.

While bathing spurn’d the grassy shore.

And sunk, midst friends, to rise no more;

By parents witness’d. — Hark! their shrieks E
The dreadful language horror speaks!

But why in verse attempt to tell
That tale the stone records so well*?

* Inscription on the side towards the water.

u Sacred to the memory of John Whitehead Waiire,

THE BANKS OF WYE.

£3

Nothing could damp th’ awaken’d joy, 277

Not e’en thy fate, ingenuous boy;

The great, the grand of Nature strove.

To lift our hearts to life and love.

M ho perished near this spot, whilst bathing in the river
Wye, iu sight of his afflicted parents, brother, and sisters,
on the J4th of September, Is04? in- the sixteenth year of
his age.

god’s WILL EE DO \ E,

u Who, in his mercy, hath granted consolation to the pa-
rents of the dear departed, in the reflection, that he pos-
sessed truth, innocence, filial piety, and fraternal affec-
tion, in the highest degree. That, but a few moments
before he was called to a better life, he had (with a never
to be forgotten piety) joined his family in joyful thanks
to his Maker, for the restoration of his mother’s health,
llis parents, in justice to his amiable virtue and excellent
disposition, declare, that he was void of offence towards
them. With humbled hearts they bow to the Almighty’s
dispensation \ trusting, through the mediation of liis

£4

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Hail! Coldwell rocks; frowu,. frown away ^
Thrust from your woods your shafts of grey : 282

Full not, to crush our mortal pride.

Or stop the stream on which we glide.

blessed Son, he will mercifully receive their child he so
suddenly took to himself.

“ This monument is here erected to warn parents and
others how they trust the deceitful stream ; and part ic u'
larly to exhort them to learn and observe the directions
of the Humane Society, for the recovery of persons appa-
rently drowned. Ahis! it is with the extremest sorrow
here commemorated, what anguish is felt from a want of
this knowledge. The lamented youth swam very well ;
was endowed with great bodily strength and activity; and
possibly, had proper application been used, might have
been saved from bis untimely fate. He was born at
Oporto, in the kingdom of Portugal, on the 14th of Fe-
bruary, 1789; third son of James Warre, of London, and
of the county of Somerset, merchant, and Elinor, daugh>
ter of Thomas Gregg, of Belfast, Esq.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

25

Our lives are short, our joys are few : 285

But, giants, what is time to you P
Ye who erect, in many a mass.

Rise from the scarcely dimpled glass.

u Passenger, whoever thou art, spare this tomb! It is
erected for the benefit of the surviving, being but a poor
record of the grief of those who witnessed the sad occasion
of it* God preserve you and yours from such calamity !
May you not require their assistance 5 but if you should,
the apparatus, with directions for the application by the
Humane Society, for the saving of persons apparently
drowned, are lodged at the church of Caldwell.”

On the opposite side is inscribed ,

“ It is with gratitude acknowledged by the parents of
the deceased, that permission w as gratuitously, and most
obligingly, granted for the erection of this monument, by
William Vaughan, Esq. of Courtfield.”

THE B VNKS OF WYE.

26

That with distinct, and mellow glow.

Reflects your monstrous forms below;

Or in clear shoals, in breeze or sun.

Shakes all your shadows into one;

Boast ye o’er man in proud disdain,

A silent, everlasting reign P

Bear ye your heads so high in scorn

Of names that puny man hath borne?

Proud rocks ! had Cambria’s bards but here
Their names engraven , deep and clear.

That such as gaily wind along.

Might greet with shouts those sires of song.
And trace the fame that mortals crave.

To LIGHT and LIFE beyond the grave!
Then might ye boast your wreaths entwin’d.
With trophies of the deathless MIND,.

289

THE BANKS OF WYE. 27

Then would your fronts record on high, SOS

“ We perish! — Man can never die!

Not nameless quite ye lift your brows*

For each the navigator knows;

Not by King Arthur, or his knights,

Bard fam’d in lays, or chief in fights;

But former tourists, just as free,

(Though surely not so blest as we,)

A group of wranglers from the bar.

Suspending here , their mimic war.

Mark’d towering Bearcropt’s ivy crown.

And grey Yansittart’s waving gown;

And who’s that giant by his side?

“ Sergeant Ai>air,” the boatman cried.

Yet strange it seems, however true.

That here, where law has nought to do.

28

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Where rules and bonds are set aside.

By wood, by rock, by stream defy’d ;

That here, where nature seems at strife
With all that tells of bus)^ life,

Man should by names be carried still,

To Babylon against his will.

But how shall memory rehearse.

Or dictate the untoward verse
That truth demands? Could he refuse
Thy unsought honours, darling Muse,

Who thus, in idle, happy trim
Rode just where friends would carry him.
And thus hath since his cares beguil’d
By rhymes as joyous, and as wild?

Truth he obeys. The generous band.

That spread his board and grasp’d his hand*

321

THE BANKS OF WYE.

29

In native mirth, as here they came.
Gave a bluff rock his humble name:

A yew-tree clasps its rugged base ;

The boatman knows its reverend face ;
With Pollett’s memory and Lis fee ,
Rests the result that time shall see.

Yet, whether time shall sweep away
The fragile whimsies of a day ;

Or future travellers rest the oar.

To hear the mingled echoes roar
A stranger’s triumph! He will feel
A joy that death alone can steal.

And should he cold indifference feign.
And treat such honours with disdain.
Pretending pride shall not deceive him.
Good people all, pray don’t believe him;

337

THE BANKS OF WYE.

30

In such a spot to leave a name, 353

At least is no opprobrious fame;

This reck perhaps nprear’d his brow.

Ere human blood began to flow.

Nor let ti e wandering stranger fear
That Wye here ends her wild career ;

Though closing boughs, — though hills may seem
To bar all egress to the stream.

Some airy height he climbs amain.

And finds the silver eel again.

No fears we form’d, no labours counted,

Yet Symmon’s Yat must be surmounted;

A tower of rock that seems to cry,

4 Go round about me, neighbour Wye*/

* This rocky isthmus, perforated at the base, would
measure not more than six hundred yards, and its highest

THE BANKS OF WYE.

M

On went the boat, and up the steep 367

Her straggling* crew began to creep*

To gain the ridge, enjoy the view.

Where the fresh gales of summer blew.

The gleaming Wye, that circles round.

Her four-mile course, again is found;

And crouching to the conqueror’s pride.

Bathes his huge cliffs on either side;

Seen at one glance, when from his brow.

The eye surveys twin gulphs below.

point is two thousand feet above the water. If this state-
ment, taken from Coxe's History of Monmouthshire, and
an Excursion down the Wye, by C. Heath, of Monmouth,
is correct, its elevation is greater than that of the “ Pen
y Vale,” or u Sugar-Loaf Mountain,” near Abergavenny.
Yet it has less the appearance of a mountain, than the
river has that of an excavation. It is probable that some
error has crept into the publications above named.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

32

Whence comes thy name? What Symon he.
Who gain’d a monument in thee ? 3 78

Perhaps a wild-wood hunter, — bom
Peril, and toil, and death to scorn.

Or w arrior, with his powerful lance,

Who scal’d the cliff to mark th’ advance
Of rival arms, — Or humble swrain
Who sought for pasture here in vain;

Or venerable bard, who strove
To tune his harp to themes of love ;

Or with a poet’s ardent dame.

Sung to the winds his country’s fame?

Westward Great Do ward, stretching wide.
Upheaves his iron-bow el’d side;

And by his everlasting mound.

Prescribes th’ imprison’d river’s bound.

'zVzfivd

- —

THE BANKS OF WYE.

S3

And strikes the eye with mountain force : S9S

But stranger mark thy rugged course
From crag to crag, unwilling, slow.

To New Wier forge, that smokes below.

Here rush’d the keel like lightning by :

The helmsman watch’d with anxious eye ;

And oars alternate touch’d the brim.

To keep the flying boat in trim.

Forward quick changing, changing still.

Again rose cliff, and wood, and hill.

Where mingling foliage seem’d to strive.

With dark-brown saplings, flay’d alive*.

* The custom is here alluded to, of stripping the bark
from oaks while growing, which gives ao almost unde*
scribable, thongh not the most agreeable, effect to tht
landscape*

u

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Down to the gulph beneath; where eft
The toiling wood-boy dragg’d aloft
His stubborn faggot from the brim,

And gaz'd, and tugg’d with sturdy limb;
And where the mind repose would seek,

A barren, storm-defying peak.

The Little Doward lifted high
His rocky crown of royalty.

Hush ! not a whisper ! Oars be still !
Comes that soft sound from yonder hill ?

Or is the sound so faint, though near
It scarcely strikes the listening ear?

E’en so; for down the green bank, fell.

An ice-cold stream from Martin’s Well,
Bright as young beauty’s azure eye,

And pure as infant chastity,

405

THE BANKS OF WYE.

35

Each limpid draught, suffus’d with dew, 421

The dipping glass’s crystal hue ;

And as it trembling reach’d the lip,

Delight sprung up at ev’ry sip.

Pure, temperate joys, and calm, were these;

We tost upon no Indian seas ;

No savage Chiefs, with tawny crew.

Came jabbering in the bark canoe
Our strength to dare, our course to turn;

Yet boats a South Sea chief would burn*.

* In Caesar’s Commentaries, mention is made of boats of
this description, formed of a raw hide, (from whence, per-
haps, their name Coracle,) which were in use among the
natives. How little they dreamed of the vastness of mo-
dern perfection* and of the naval conflicts of latter days !

3G THE BANKS OF WYE.

Sculk’d in the alder shade. Each bore.
Devoid of keel, or sail, or oar.

An upright fisherman, with eye.

Of Bramin-like solemnity ;

Who scanned the surface either way.
And cleaved it like a fly at play;

And crossways bore a balanc’d pole.

To drive the salmon from his hole;

Then heedful leapt, without parade.

On shore, as luck or fancy bade;

And o’er his back, in gallant trim.
Swung the light shell that carried him;
Then down again his burden threw.

And launch’d his whirling bowl anew ;
Displaying, in his bow’ry station.

The infancy of navigation.

431

THE BANKS OF WYE.

37

Soon round us spread the hills and dales.
Where Geoffrey spun his magic tales.

And call’d them history. The land
Whence Arthur sprung, and all his band
Of gallant knights. Sire of romance,

Who led the fancy’s mazy dance.

Thy tales shall please, thy name still be.
When Time forgets my verse and me.

Low sunk the sun, his ev’ning beam
Scarce reach’d us on the tranquil stream;

Shut from the world, and all its din.

Nature’s own bonds had clos’d us in;

Wood, and deep dell, and rock, and ridge.
From smiling Ross to Monmouth Bridge;
From morn, till twilight stole away,

A long, unclouded, glorious day.

477

END OF THE FIRST BOOK*

THE BANKS OF WYE.

BOOK II.

CONTENTS OF BOOK II.

Henry the Fifth. — Morning on the Water. — Landoga. —
Ballad, “The Maid of Landoga”— Tintern Abbey. —
Wind-Cliff. — Arrival at Chepstow. — Persfield. — Ballad,
w Morris of Persfield.” — View from Wind- Cliff. — Chep-
*tow Castle by Moonlight.

THE BANKS OE WYE.

BOOK IT.

Harry of Monmouth, o'er thy page.
Great chieftain of a daring age.

The stripling soldier burns to see
The spot of thy nativity;

His ardent fancy can restore
Thy castle's turrets, (now no more;)

See the tall plumes of victory wave.

And call old valour from the grave;

Twang the strong bow, and point the lance.
That pierc’d the shatter’d hosts of France,

42

THE BANKS OF WYE.

When Nations, in the days of yore.

Shook at the rampant lion’s roar.

Ten hours were all we could command ^
The Boat was moor’d upon the strand.

The midnight current, by her side.

Was stealing down to meet the tide;

The wakeful steersman ready lay.

To rouse us at the break of day ;

It came — how soon ! and what a sky.

To cheer the bounding traveller’s eye!

To make him spurn his couch of rest.

To shout upon the river’s breast.

Watching by turns the rosy hue
Of early cloud, or sparkling dew.

These living joys the verse shall tell,
Harry, and Monmouth, fare-ye-welh

11

THE BANKS OF WYE.

46

On upland farm; and airy heigh t.

Swept by the breeze, and cloth’d in light.

The reapers, early from their beds.

Perhaps were singing o’er our heads.

For, stranger, deem not that the eye
Could hence survey the eastern sky;

Or mark the streak’d horizon’s bound.

Where first the rosy sun wheels round;

Deep in the gulph beneath were we.

Whence climb’d blue mists o’er rock and tree;
A mingling, undulating crowd.

That form’d the dense or fleecy cloud;

Slow from the darken’d stream upborne.

They caught the quick’ning gales of morn;
There bade their parent Wye good day.

And ting’d with purple, sail’d away.

27

44

THE BANKS OF WYE.

The Munno* join’d us all unseen. 43

Troy House, and Beaufort’s bowers of green.
And nameless prospects, half defin’d.

Involv’d in mist, were left behind.

Yet as the boat still onward bore.

The ramparts of the eastern shore
Cower’d the high crest to many a sweep.

And bade us o’er each minor steep
Mark the bold Kymin’s sunny brow.

That, gleaming o’er our fogs below.

Lifted amain with giant power.

E’en to the clouds his Naval Tower f;

* The river Munno, or Mynnow, falls into the Wye,
near Monmouth.

f The Kymin Pavilion, erected in honour of the Bri-
tish Admirals, and their unparalleled victories.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

45

Proclaiming to the morning sky.

Valour, and fame, and victory.

The air resign’d its hazy blue.

Just as Landoga came in view;

Delightful village! one by one.

Thy climbing dwellings caught the sun.

So bright the scene, the air so clear.

Young Love and Joy seem’d station’d here;
And each with floating banners cried,

“ Stop friends, you’ll meet the rushing tide.”

Rude fragments, torn, disjointed, wild.
High on the Glo’ster shore are pil’d;

No mould’ring fane, the boast of years.
Unstain’d by time, the wreck appears :

With pouring wrath, and hideous swell,
Down foaming from a woodland dell.

55

46

THE BANKS OF WYE.

A Summer flood’s resistless pow’r,

Rais’d the grim ruin in an hour !

When that o’erwhelming tempest spread
Its terrors round the guilty head.

When earth-bound rocks themselves gave way,
When crash’d the prostrate timbers lay,

O, it had been a noble sight.

Crouching beyond the torrent’s might.

To mark th’ uprooted victims bow.

The grinding masses dash below.

And hear the long deep peal the while
Burst over Tjntern’s roofless pile!

Then, as the sun regain’d his power.

When the last breeze from hawthorn bower

Or Druid oak, had shook away

The rain-drops ’midst the gleaming day,

71

THE BANKS OF WYE.

47

Perhaps the sigh of hope return’d
And love in some chaste bosom burn’d.
And softly trill’d the stream along,
Some rustic maiden’s village song.

THE MAID OF LANDOGA.
Return, my Llewellyn, the glory
That heroes may gain o’er the sea.
Though nations may feel
Their invincible steel,

M.

By falsehood is tarnish’d in story;
Why tarry, Llewellyn, from me P

Thy sails, on the fathomless ocean,
Are swell’d by the boisterous gale;
How rests thy tir’d head
On the rude rocking bed P

87

48

THE BANKS OF WYE.

While here not a leaf is in motion.

And melody reigns in the dale.

The mountains of Monmouth invite thee;
The Wye, O how beautiful here !

This woodbine, thine own.

Hath the cottage overgrown,

O what foreign shore can delight thee.

And where is the current so clear ?

Can lands, where false pleasure assails thee.
And beauty invites thee to roam;

Can the deep orange grove
Charm with shadows of love?

Thy love at Landoga bewails thee;
Remember her truth and thy home.

10!

THE BANKS OF WYE.

49

Adieu, Landoga, scene most dear.
Farewell we bade to Ethel’s Wier;
Bound many a point then bore away.

Till morn was chang’d to beauteous day :
And forward on the lowland shore.

Silent majestic ruins, wore

The stamp of holiness; this strand

The steersman hail’d, and touch’d the land.

Sudden the change; at once to tread
The grass-grown mansions of the dead !
Awful to feeling, where, immense.

Rose ruin’d, gray magnificence ;

The fair- wrought shaft all ivy-bound.

The tow’ring arch with foliage crown’d,

105

50

THE BANKS OF WYE.

That trembles on its brow sublime> 119

Triumphant o’er the spoils of time.

Here, grasping all the eye beheld.

Thought into mingling anguish s well’d.

And check’d the wild excursive wing.

O’er dust or bones of priest or king:

Or rais’d some blood-stain’d* warrior’s ghost
To shout before his banner’d host.

But all was still. — The checquer’d floor
Shall echo to the step no more;

Nor airy roof the strain prolong.

Of vesper chant or choral song.

* There is shewn here a mutilated figure, which they
call (he famous Earl Strongbow; but it appears from
Coxe that he was buried at Gloucester.

THE BANKS OF WYE-

SI

Tintern, thy name shall hence sustain
A thousand raptures in my brain ;

Joys, full of soul, all strength, all eye.

That cannot fade, that cannot die.

No loitering here, lone walks to steal*
Ours was the early hunter’s meal;

For time and tide, stern couple, ran
Their endless race, and laugh’d at man;
Deaf, had we shouted, “ turn about,”

Or, “ wait a while, till we come out;’*

To humour them we check’d our pride*

And ten cheer’d hearts stow’d side by side.
Push’d from the shore with current strong,
And “ Hey for Chepstow,” steer’d along*

I SI

UBmr —

university m nmm

THE BVNKS OF WYE.

M

Amidst the bright expanding day, 145

The solemn, deep, dark shadows lay
Of that rich foliage, tow’ring o’er
Where princely abbots dwelt of yore.

The mind, with instantaneous glance.

Beholds his barge of state advance.

Borne proudly down the ebbing tide.

She sweeps the waving boughs aside ;

She winds with flowing pendants drest.

And as the current turns south-west.

She strikes her oars, where, full in view.
Stupendous Wind-Cliff greets her crew.

But, Fancy, let thy day-dreams cease.

With fallen greatness be at peace;

Enough; for Wind-Cliff still was found
To hail us as we doubled round.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

53

Bold in primeval strength he stood; 161

His rocky brow, all shagg’d with wood,
O’er-Iook’d his base, where, doubling strong,

The inward torrent pours along;

Then ebbing turns, and turns again,

(To meet the Severn and the Main,)

Beneath the dark shade sweeping round.

Of beetling Persfield’s fairy ground.

By buttresses of rock upborne.

The rude Apostles all unshorn*.

Long be the slaughtering axe defy’d;

Long may they bear their waving pride;

Tree over tree, bower over bower.

In uncurb’d nature’s wildest power;

* Twelve projecting rocks so named, fringed with fo-
liage nearly to the water’s edge.

54

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Till Wye forgets to wind below, 175

And genial spring to bid them grow*

And shall we e'er forget the day,

When our last chorus died away ?

When first we hail’d, then moor’d beside
Rock-founded Chepstow’s mouldering pride?
Where that strange bridge*, light, trembling, high.
Strides like a spider o’er the Wye;

* “On my arrival at Chepstow,” says Mr. Coxe, " I
walked to the bridge; it was low water, and I looked
down on the river ebbing between forty and fifty feet be-
neath; six hours after, it rose near forty feet, almost
reached the floor of the bridge, and flowed upward with
great rapidity. The channel in this place being narrow
in proportion to the Severn, and confined between per-
pendicular cliffs, the great rise and fall of the river are
peculiarly manifest.”

THE BANKS OF WYE.

&3

When, for the joys the morn had giv’n.

Our thankful hearts were rais’d to heav’n P
Never: — that moment shall be dear.

While hills can charm, or sun-beams cheer,
Pollett, farewell ! Thy dashing oar
Shall lull us into peace no more;

But where Kyrle trimm’d his infant green.
Long mayst thou with thy bark be seen;
And happy be the hearts that glide
Through such a scene, with such a guide.

The verse of gravel walks that tells,
W7ith pebble-rocks and mole-hill swells.

May strain description^ bursting cheeks.
And far out-run the goal it seeks.

Not so when ev’ning^s purpling hours
Hied us away to Perseield's bowers:

183

THE BANKS OF WYE.

My

Here no such clanger waits the lay, 199

Sing on, and truth shall lead the way ;

Here sight may range, and hearts may glow.

Yet shrink from the abyss below;

Here echoing precipices roar.

As youthful ardour shouts before :

Here a sweet paradise shall rise
At once to greet poetic eyes.

Then why does HE dispel, unkind.

The sweet illusion from the mind,

YON GIANT*, with the goggling eye,

Who strides in mock sublimity?

* An immense giant of stone, who, to say the best of
him, occupies a place where such personages are least
wanted, or wished.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

57

Giants identified, may frown.

Nature and taste would knock them down:
Blocks that usurp some noble station.

As if to curb imagination.

Which, smiling at the chissel’s pow'r.
Makes better monsters every hour.

Beneath impenetrable green,

Down 'midst the hazel stems was seen
The turbid stream, with all that past ;

The lime-white deck, the gliding mast;

Or skiff with gazers darting by.

Who rais'd their hands in extasy.
Impending cliffs hung overhead;

The rock-path sounded to the tread.
Where twisted roots, in many a fold.
Through moss, disputed room for hold.

m

58

THE BANKS OF WYE.

The stranger who thus steals one hour
To trace thy walks from bower to bower,
Thy noble cliffs, thy wild wood joys.

Nature’s own work that never cloys.

Who, while reflection bids him roam.

Calls not this paradise his home ,

Can ne’er, with dull unconscious eye.

Leave them behind without a sigh.

Thy tale of truth then. Sorrow, tell,

Of him who bade this home farewell;
Morris of Persfield. — Hark, the strains*
Hark ! ’tis some hoary bard complains !

The deeds, the worth, he knew so well,

The force of nature bids him tell.

227

THE BANKS OF WYE.

£9

MORRIS OF PERSFIELD.

Who was lord of yon beautiful seat;

Yon woods which are tow’ring so high?
Who spread the rich board for the great.
Yet listen’d to pity’s soft sigh?

WTho gave with a spirit so free.

And fed the distress’d at his door ?

Our Morris of Persfield was he.

Who dwelt in the hearts of the poor.

But who e’en of wealth shall make sure.
Since wealth to misfortune has bow’d ?
Long cherish’d untainted and pure.

The stream of his charity flow’d.

241

60

THE BANKS OF WYE.

But all his resources gave way,

O what could his feelings controulP

What shall curb, in the prosperous day,
Th? excess of a generous soul?

He bade an adieu to the town,

O, can I forget the sad day P

When I saw the poor widows kneel down.
To bless him, to weep, and to pray.

Though sorrow was mark'd in his eye.
This trial he manfully bore;

Then pass’d o’er the bridge of the Wye,
To return to his Persfield no more.

’Twas true that another might feel;

That poverty still might be fed.

253

THE BANKS OF WYE.

61

Y~et long we rung out the dumb peal, 257

For to us noble Morris was dead.

He had not lost sight of his home.

Yon domain that so lovely appears.

When he heard it, and sunk overcome ;

He felt it-— and burst into tears.

The lessons of prudence have charms.

And slighted, may lead to distress;

But the man whom benevolence warms.

Is an angel who lives but to bless.

If ever man merited fame.

If ever man’s failings went free.

Forgot at the sound of his name.

Our Morris of Persfield was he*.

* The author is equally indebted to Mr. Coxe’s Coun-

62

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Cleft from the summit, who shall say 281
When Wind- Cliff’s other half gave way?

Or when the sea- waves, roaring strong,

First drove the rock-bound tide along?

To studious leisure be resign’d.

The task that leads the wilder ’d mind.

From time’s first birth throughout the range
Of Nature’s everlasting change.

Soon from his all-commanding brow.

Lay Persfield’s rocks and woods below*

Back over Monmouth who could trace
The Wye’s fantastic mountain race?

Before us, sweeping far and wide.

Lay out-stretch’d Severn’s ocean tide.

ty History for this anecdote, as for the greater part of
the notes subjoined throughout the Journal,

THE BANKS OF WYE.

m

Through whose blue mists, ail upward blown, 295
Broke the faint lines of heights unknown ;

And still, (though clouds would interpose,)

The Cotswold promontories rose
In dark succession: Stinciicombe’s brow.

With Berkeley-Castle crouch’d below;

And stranger spires on either hand.

From Thornbury, on the Glo’ster strand.

With black-brow’d woods, and yellow fields,

(The boundless wealth that summer yields,)
Detain’d the eye, that glanc’d again
O’er Kingroad anchorage to the main.

Or was the bounded view preferr’d.

Far, far beneath, the spreading herd.

Low’d, as the cow-boy stroll’d along.

And cheerly sung his last new song.

64

THE BANKS OF WYE.

But cow-boy, herd, and tide, and spire
Sunk into gloom. — -The tinge of fire.

As westward roll’d the setting day.

Fled like a golden dream away.

Then Chepstow’s rain’d fortress caught
The mind’s collected store of thought,

A dark; majestic, jealous frown
Hung on his brow, and warn’d us down.

*T was well; for he has much to boast.
Much still that tells of glories lost.

Though rolling years have form’d the sod.
Where once the bright-helm’d warrior trod
From tower to tower, and gaz’d around.
While all beneath him slept profound.

E’en on the walls where pac’d the brave.
High o’er his crumbling turrets wave

31 1

page 64.

THE BANKS OF WYE

65

The rampant seedlings.— Not a breath 327

Past through their leaves ; when, still as death,
We stopp’d to watch the clouds — for night
Grew splendid with increasing light.

Till, as time loudly told the hour.

Gleam’d the broad front of Marten's Tower*,

* Henry Marten, whose signature appears upon the
death-warrant of Charles the First, finished his days here
in prison. Marten lived to the advanced age of seventy
eight> and died by a stroke of apoplexy, which seized
him while he was at dinner, in the twentieth year of his
confinement. He was buried in the chancel of the parish
church at Chepstow. Over his ashes was placed a stone
with an inscription, which remained there until one of
the succeeding vicars declaring his abhorrence that the
monument of a rebel should stand so near the altar, re’
moved the stone into the body of the church !

F

G6

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Bright silver’d by the moon. — Then rose
The wild notes sacred to repose;

Then the lone owl awoke from rest.
Stretch’d his keen talons, plum’d his crest.
And, from his high embattl’d station.

Hooted a trembling salutation.

Rocks caught the “ halloo” from his tongue.
And Persfield back the echoes flung
Triumphant o’er th’ illustrious dead.

Their history lost, their glories fled.

833

END OF THE SECOND BOOK.

THE BANKS OF WYE

BOOK III.

CONTENTS OF BOOK III.

Departure for Ragland.— Ragland Castle, — Abergavenny.
—Expedition up the u Pen-y-Vale,” or Sugar-Loaf
Hill — Invocation to the Spirit of Burns. — View from
the Mountain. — Castle of Abergavenny. — Departure
for Brecon.— Pembrokes of Crickhowel. — Tre-Tower
Castle.— Jane Edwards.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

book nr.

P eace to your white -wall’d cots, ye vales,
Untainted fly your summer gales;

Health, thou from cities lov’st to roam,

O make the Monmouth hills thy home !
Great spirits of her bards of yore.

While harvests triumph, torrents roar.

Train her young shepherds, train them high
To sing of mountain liberty:

Give them the harp and modest maid ;

Give them the sacred village shade.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

7§

Long be Llandenny, and Llansoy, 1 1

Names that import a rural joy;

Known to our fathers, when May-day
Brush’d a whole twelvemonth’s care away.

Far different joys possess’d the mind.

When Chepstow fading sunk behind.

And, from a belt of woods full grown,

Arose immense thy turrets brown.

Majestic Ragland ! Harvests wave
Where thund’ring hosts their watch-word gave.
When cavaliers, with downcast eye.

Struck the last flag of loyalty*:

* This castle, with a garrison commanded by the Mar-
quis of Worcester, was the last place of strength which
held out for the unfortunate Charles the First.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

71

Then, left by gallant Worcester's band, 23
To devastation’s cruel hand
The beauteous fabric bow’d, fled all
The splendid hours of festival.

No smoke ascends; the busy hum
Is heard no more; no rolling drum,

No high-ton’d clarion sounds alarms.

No banner wakes the pride of arms*;

* <c These magnificent ruins, including the citadel, oc-
cupy a tract of ground not less than one-third of a mile
in circumference.”

u In addition to the injury the castle sustained from the
parliamentary army, considerable dilapidations have been
occasioned by the numerous tenants in the vicinity, who
conveyed away the stone and other materials for the con-
struction of farm-houses, barns, and other buildings. Nft
less tl^an twenty-three staircases were taken down by these

72

THE BANKS OF WYE.

But ivy, creeping year by year, SI

Of growth enormous, triumphs here.

Each dark festoon, with pride upheaves
Its glossy wilderness of leaves
On sturdy limbs, that, clasping, bow
Broad o’er the turrets utmost brow.

Encompassing, by strength alone.

In fret- work bars, the sliding stone.

That tells how years and storms prevail.

And spreads its dust upon, the gale.

devastators; but the present Duke of Beaufort no sooner
succeeded to hisestate, than he instantly gave orders that
not a stone should be moved from its situation, and thus
preserved these noble ruins from destruction,”

History of Monmouthshire, page 148.

THE BANKS OF WYE

73

The man who could unmov’d survey 41

What ruin, piecemeal, sweeps away;

Works of the powerful and the brave.

All sleeping in the silent grave;

Unmov'd reflect, that here w ere sung
Carols of joy, by beauty’s tongue.

Is fit, where’er he deigns to roam.

And hardly fit — to stay at home.

Spent here in peace,— one solemn hour
(’Midst legends of the Yellow Toweh,

Truth and tradition’s mingled stream.

Fear’s start, and superstition’s dream*)

* A village woman, who very officiously pointed out all
that she knew respecting tbe former state of the castle,
desired us to remark the descent to a vault, apparently of

74

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Is pregnant with a thousand joys, 55

That distance, place, nor time destroys;

That with exhaustless stores supply
Food for reflection till we die.

Onward the rested steeds pursu'd
The cheerful route, with strength renew’d,

For onward lay the gallant town.

Whose name old custom hath clipp’d down,

With more of music left than many.

So handily to Abergany,

large dimensions, in which she had heard that no candle
would continue burning.; “and,” added she, “they say
it is because of the damps; but for my part, I think the
devil is there.”

THE BANKS OF WYE.

75

And as the sidelong, sober light
Left valleys darken’d, hills less bright.
Great Blorenge rose to tell his tale;

And the dun peak of Pen-y-V 4LE
Stood like a sentinel, whose brow
Scowl’d on the sleeping world below;

Yet even sleep itself outspread
The mountain paths we meant to tread,
’Midst freshening gales all un confin’d.
Where Use’s broad valley shrinks behind.

Joyous the crimson morning rose.

As joyous from the night’s repose
Sprung the light heart. The glancing eye
Beheld, amidst the dappl’d sky.

63

76

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Exulting Pen-y-Vale. But how 77

Could females climb his gleaming brow.

Rude toil encount’ring? how defy
The wintry torrent’s course, when dry,

A rough-scoop’d bed of stones P or meet
The powerful force of August heat ?

Wheels might assist, could wheels be found
Adapted to the rugged ground :

*Twas done 3 for prudence bade us start
With three Welch ponies, and a cart;

A red-cheek’ d mountaineer*, a wit.

Full of rough shafts, that sometimes hit.

* The driver, Powell, I believe, occupied a cottage, or
small farm, which we past during the ascent, and where
goats1 milk was offered for refreshment.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

77

Trudg’d by their side, and twirl’d his thong.
And cheer’d his scrambling team along.

At ease to mark a scene so fair.

And treat their steeds with mountain air.
Some rode apart, or led before.

Rock after rock the wheels upbore;

The careful driver slowly sped,

To many a bough we duck’d the head.

And heard the wild inviting calls
Of summer’s tinkling waterfalls.

In wooded glens below; and still.

At every step the sister hill,

Blorenge, grew greater; half unseen
At times from out our bowers of green.
That telescopic landscapes made.

From the arch’d windows of its shade;

89

78

THE BANKS OF WYE.

For woodland tracts begirt us round ;

The vale beyond was fairy ground.

That verse can never paint. Above
Gleam’d, (something like the mount of Jove,
But how much, let the learned say.

Who take Olympus in their way)

Gleam’d the fair, sunny, cloudless peak
That simple strangers ever seek.

And are they simple? Hang the dunce
Who would not doff his cap at once
In extasy, when, bold and new.

Bursts on his sight a mountain-view.

Though vast the prospect here became.
Intensely as the love of fame
Glow’d the strong hope, that strange desire.
That deathless wish of climbing higher.

105

THE BANKS OF WYE.

79

Where heather clothes his graceful sidles.
Which many a scatter’d rock divides.
Bleach’d by more years than hist’ry knows.
Mov’d by no power but melting snows.

Or gushing springs, that wash away
Th’ embedded earth that forms their stay.
The heart distends, the whole frame feels.
Where, inaccessible to wheels.

The utmost storm- worn summit spreads
Its rocks grotesque, its downy beds;

Here no false feeling, sense belies,

Man lifts the weary foot, and sighs;
Laughter is dumb ; hilarity
Forsakes at once th’ astonish’d eye;

E’en the clos’d lip, half useless grown.

Drops but a word, “ Look down; look down.

121

80

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Good Heavens! must scenes like these expand.
Scenes so magnificently grand, 138

And millions breathe, and pass away,

Unbless’d throughout their little day.

With one short glimpse? By place confin’d.

Shall many an anxious ardent mind.

Sworn to the Muses, cow’r its pride.

Doom’d but to sing with pinions tied?

Spirit of Burns ! the daring child
Of glorious freedom, rough and wild.

How have I wept o’er all thy ills.

How blest thy Caledonian hills!

How almost worshipp’d in my dreams
Thy mountain haunts, — thy classic streams!

How burnt with hopeless, aimless fire.

To mark thy giant strength aspire

THE BANKS OF WYE.

81

In patriot themes ! and tun’d the while
Thy “ Bonny Boon/3 or “ Balloch Mile ”
Spirit of Burns ! accept the tear
That rapture gives thy mem’ry here
On the bleak mountain top. Here thou
Thyself hadst rais’d the gallant brow
Of conscious intellect, to twine
Th’ imperishable verse of thine.

That charms the world. Or can it be.

That scenes like these were nought to the« ?
That Scottish hills so far excel.

That so deep sinks the Scottish dell.

That boasted Pen-y-Vale had been*.

For thy loud northern lyre too mean;

155

* The respective heights of these mountains above the

S3

THE B1NKS OF WYE.

Broad-shoulder’d Blorenge a mere knoll, 187
And Skyrid, let him smile or scowl,

A dwarfish bully, vainly proud.

Because he breaks the passing c?oud f
If even so, thou bard of fame.

The consequences rest the same :

For, grant that to thy infant sight
Rose mountains of stupendous height ;

Or grant that Cambrian minstrels taught
*Mid scenes that mock the lowland thought;

mouth of the Gavany, was taken barometrically by Gen.

Roy

Feet.

The summit of the Sugar-Loaf 1852

Of the Blorenge 1720

Of the Skyrid 149*

THE BANKS OF WYE.

85

Grant that old Talliesen flung- 177

His thousand raptures, as he sung
From huge Plyn^imon’s awful brow.

Or Cader Idris, capt with snow;

Such Alpine scenes with them or thee
Well suited. — These are Alps to me.

Long did we, noble Blorenge, gaze
On thee, and mark the eddying haze
That strove to reach thy level crown.

From the rich stream, and smoking town ;

And oft, old Skyrid, hail’d thy name,

Nor dat’d deride thy holy fame*.

* There still remains, on the summit of the Skyrid, or
St. Michael's Mount, the foundation of an ancient chapel.

84

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Long follow’d with untiring eye 189

Th’ illumin’d clouds, that o’er the sky
Drew their thin veil, and slowly sped,

Dipping to every mountain’s head.

Dark mingling, fading, wild, and thence.

Till admiration, in suspense.

Hung on the verge of sight. Then sprung.

By thousands known, by thousands sung.

Feelings that earth and time defy.

That cleave to immortality.

to which the inhabitants formerly ascended on Michael-
mas Eve, in a kind of pilgrimage. A prodigious cleft, or
separation in the hill, tradition says, was caused by the
earthquake at the crucifixion, it was therefore termed the
Holy Mountain.

THE BANKS OF WYE*

85

A light gray haze inclos’d us round: 199

Some momentary drops were found.

Borne on the breeze ; soon all dispell’d ;

Once more the glorious prospect sweii’d
Interminably fair*. Again
Stretch’d the Black Mountain’s dreary chain !
When eastward turn’d the straining eye.

Great Malvern met the cloudless sky:

Dark in the south uprose the shores.

Where Ocean in his fury roars.

* This hill commands a view of the counties of Rad-
nor, Salop, Brecknock, Glamorgan, Hereford, Worcester*
Gloucester, Somerset, and Wilts,

86

THE BANKS OF WYE.

And rolls abrupt his fearful tides.

Far still from Mendip’s fern-clad sides;

From whose vast range of mingling blue.

The weary, wandering sight withdrew.

O’er fair Glamorgan’s woods and downs.
O’er glitt’ring streams, and farms, and towns,
Bajck to the Table Rock, that lowers
O’er old Crickhqwel’s ruin’d towers.

Here perfect stillness reign’d, The breath
A moment hush’d, ’twas mimic death .

The ear, from all assaults releas'd.

As motion, sound, and life, had ceas’d.

The beetle rarely murmur’d by.

No sheep-dog sent his voice so high.

209

THE BANKS OF WYE.

87

Save when, by chance, far down the steep,
Crept a live speck, a straggling sheep ; .
Yet one lone object, plainly seen.

Curv’d slowly, in a line of green.

On the brown heath : no demon fell.

No wizard foe, with magic spell.

To chain the senses, chill the heart.

No wizard guided Powel’s cart;

He of our nectar had the care.

All our ambrosia rested there.

At leisure, but reluctant still.

We join’d him by a mountain rill;

And there, on springing turf, all seated,
Jove’s guests were never half so treated;
Journies t ey had, and feastings many.

But never came to Abekgany;

2M

88

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Lucky escape : — the wrangling crew.
Mischief to cherish or to brew.

Was ail their sport: and when, in rage.
They chose ’midst warriors to engage.
Loud for their fiery steeds they cried.

And dash’d th’ opposing clouds aside.
Whirl’d through the air, and foremost stood
’Midst mortal passions, mortal blood!
Beneath us frown’d no deadly war.

And Powel’s wheels were safer far;

As on them, without flame or shield.

Or bow to twang, or lance to wield.

We left the heights of inspiration.

And relish’d a mere mortal station ;

Our object, not to fire a town.

Or aid a chief, or knock him down;

2b9

THE BANKS OF WYE.

89

But safe to sleep, from war and sorrow, 257

And drive to Brecknock on the morrow.

Heavy and low ’ring, crouds on crouds.

Drove adverse hosts of darkening clouds-
Low o’er the vale, and far away.

Deep gloom o’erspread the rising day;

No morning beauties caught the eye.

O’er mountain top, or stream, or sky.

As round the castle’s ruin’d tower.

We mus’d for many a solemn hour ;

And, half-dejected, half in spleen.

Computed idly, o’er the scene.

How many murders there had dy’d
Chiefs and their minions, slaves of pride;

When perjury, in every breath.

Pluck’d the huge falchion from its sheath.

90

THE BANKS OF WYE.

And prompted deeds of ghastly fame, 273

That hist’ry’s self might blush to name*.

At length, through each retreating shower.
Burst, with a renovating power.

Light, life, and gladness ; instant fled
All contemplations on the dead.

Who hath not mark’d, with inward joy.

The efforts of the diving boy ;

And, waiting while he disappear’d.

Exulted, trembled, hop’d, and fear’d?

Then felt his heart, ’midst cheering cries.

Bound with delight to see him rise?

* In Jones’s History of Brecknockshire, the castle of
Abergavenny is noticed as having been the scene of the
most shocking enormities.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

91

Who hath not burnt with rage, to see 285

Falsehood’s vile cant, and supple knee;

Then hail’d, on some courageous brow.

The power that works her overthrow;

That, swift as lightning, seals her doom,

“ Hence, Miscreant! vanish ! — truth is come?”

So Pen-y-Vale upheav’d his brow.

And left the world of fog below7 ;

So Sky rid, smiling, broke his way
To glories of the eonqu’ring day;

With matchless grace, and giant pride.

So Blorenge turn’d the clouds aside.

And warn’d us, not a whit too soon.

To chase the flying car of noon.

Where herds and flocks unnumber’d fed.

Where Usx her wand’ring mazes led.

92 THE BANKS OF WYE.

Here on the mind, with powerful sway.
Press’d the bright joys of yesterday ;

For still, though doom’d no more t’inhale
The mountain air of Pen- y- Vale,

His broad dark-skirting woods o’erhung
Cottage and farm, where careless sung
The labourer, where the gazing steer
Low’d to the mountains, deep and clear.

Slow less’ning Blorenge, left behind,
Reluctantly his claims resign’d.

And stretch’d his glowing front entire.

As forward peep’d Crickhowel spire;
But no proud castle’s turrets gleam’d;

No warrior Earl’s gay banner stream’d.
E’en of thy palace; (grief to tell!)

A tower — without a dinner bell ;

301

THE BANKS OF WYE.

93

An arch — where jav’lin’d sentries bow’d 315

Low to their chief, or fed the croud.

Are all that mark where once a train
Of Barons grac’d thy rich domain.

Illustrious Pemrroke* ! drain’d thy bowl.

And caught the nobleness of soul —

The harp-inspir’d, indignant blood
That prompts to arms and hardihood.

To muse upon the days gone by.

Where desolation meets the eye.

Is double life; truth, cheaply bought.

The nurse of sense, the food of thought.

Whence judgment, ripen’d, forms, at will,

Her estimates of good or ill ;

* Part of the original palace of the powerful Earls of
Pemboike is still underaolishcd by time.

94

THE BANKS OF WYE.

And brings contrasted scenes to view.

And weighs the old rogues with the new;
Imperious tyrants, gone to dust.

With tyrants whom the world hath curs’d
Through modern ages. — By what power
Rose the strong walls of old Tre Tower
Deep in the valley ; whose clear rill
Then stole through wilds, and wanders still
Through village shades, unstain’d with gore.
Where war-steeds bathe their hoofs no more *
Empires have fallen, armies bled.

Since yon old wall, with upright head.

Met the loud tempest ; who can trace
When first the rude mass, from its base.
Stoop’d in that dreadful form? E’en thou,
Jane, with the placid silver brow.

331

THE BANKS OF WYE.

95

Know’st not the day, though thou hast seen 347
An hundred* springs of cheerful green,

An hundred winters’ snows increase
That brook,-— the emblem of thy peace.

Most venerable dame ! and shall
The plund’rer, in his gorgeous hall.

His fame, with Moloch-frown prefer.

And scorn thy harmless character
Who scarcely hear’st of his renown.

And never sack’d or burnt a town ?

* Jane Edwards, or as she pronounced it, E hearts, a
tall, bony, upright woman, leaning both bands on the
head of her stick, and in her manners venerably impres-
sive, was then at the age of one hundred. She was living
in 1809, then one hundred and two.

96

THE BANKS OF WYE.

But should he crave, with coward cries.

To be Jane Edwards when he dies.

Thou' It be the Conqueror, old lass.

So take thy alms, and let us pass.

Forth, from the calm sequester’d shade.
Once more approaching twilight, bade ;
When, as the sigh of joy arose.

And while e’en fancy sought repose.

One vast transcendant object sprung.
Arresting every eye and tongue.

Strangers, (fair Brecon,) wondering, scan
The peaks of thy stupendous Vann :

But how can strangers, chain’d by time.
Through floating clouds his summit climb P

357

THE BANKS OF WYE.

97

Another day had almost fled ;

A clear horizon, glowing red.

Its promise on all hearts impress’d.
Bright sunny hours, and Sabbath rest.

END OF THE THIRD BOOK.

II

THE BANKS OE WYE,

BOOK IV.

CONTENTS OF BOOK IV.

The Gaer, a Roman Station. — Brimless Castle.— The
Hay — Funeral Song, “Mar y’s Grave.”— Clifford Cas-
tie.— Return by Hereford, Malvern Hills, Cheltenham,
and Gloucester, to Uley.— Conclusion.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

BOOK IV.

1 IS sweet to hear the soothing chime.
And, by thanksgiving, measure time ;
When hard-wrought poverty awhile
Upheaves the bending back to smile;
When servants hail, with boundless glee.
The sweets of love and liberty.

Seldom has worship cheer’d my sou!
With such invincible controul!

It was a bright benignant hour.

The song of praise was full of power ;

102

THE BANKS OF WYE.

And, darting from the noon-day sky, 1 1

Amidst the tide of harmony ,

O’er aisle and pillar glancing strong,

Heav’n’s radiant light inspir’d the song.

The word of peace, that can disarm
Care with its own peculiar charm.

Here flow’d a double stream, to cheer
The Saxon* and the Mountaineer,

Of various stock, of various name.

Now join’d in rites, and join’d in fame.

* Divine service is performed alternately in English
and Welch. That they still call us Saxons, need hardly
be mentioned. The army, it appears, is quite as accom-
modating as the church, for the posting bills, for re-
cruits, are printed in both languages.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

103

Y~e who religion’s duty teach,

What constitutes a Sabbath breach ?

Is it, when joy the bosom fills.

To wander o’er the breezy hills ?

Is it, to trace around your home
The footsteps of imperial Rome P
Then guilty, guilty let us plead,

Who, on the cheerful rested steed.

In thought absorb’d, explor’d, with care.
The wild lanes round the silent Gaer*',

* A road must have led from Abergavenny, through
the Vale of the Usk, north-west to the “Gaer,” situated
two miles north-west of Brecon, on a gentle eminence,
at the conflux of the rivers Esker and Usk. Mr. Wynd-
hara traced parts of walls, which he describes as exactly
resembling those at Caerleon*, and Mr. Lemon found

THE BANKS OF WYE.

104

Where conqu’ring eagles took their stand; 31
Where heathen altars stain’d the land ;

Where soldiers of Augustus pin’d.

Perhaps, for pleasures left behind.

And measur’d, from this lone abode.

The new-form’d, stony, forest road.

Back to Caerleon’s southern train.

Their barks, their home, beyond the main :

.several bricks, bearing the inscription of LEG. II. AVG.

— Coxe.

In addition to the above, it may be acceptable to state,
that Mr. Price, a very intelligent farmer on the spot, has
in his possession several of the above kind of bricks,
bearing the same inscription, done, evidently, by stam-
ping the clay, while moist, with au instrument. These
have been tamed up by the plow, together with seve-
ral small Roman lamps.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

105

Still by the Vann reminded strong
Of Alpine scenes, and mountain song.

The olive groves, the cloudless sky.

And golden vales of Italy.

With us ’twas peace, we met no foes;

With us far diff’rent feelings rose.

Still onward inclination bade ;

The wilds of Mona’s Druid shade,
Snowdon’s sublime and stormy brow.

His land of Britons stretch’d below.

And Penman Mawr’s huge crags, that greet
The thund’ring ocean at his feet.

Were ail before us. Hard it prov’d.

To quit a land so dearly lov’d;

Forego each bold terrific boast
Of northern Cambria’s giant coast*

39

106

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Friends of the harp and song, forgive
The deep regret that, whilst I live.

Shall dwell upon my heart and tongue ;

Go, joys untasted! themes unsung!

Another scene, another land.

Hence shall the homeward verse demand-
Yet fancy wove her flow’ry chain.

Till “farewell Brecon” left a pain;

A pain that travellers may endure.

Change is their food, and change their cure.
Yet, oh, how dream-like, far away,

To recollect so bright a day !

Dream-like those scenes the townsmen love.
Their tumbling Usk, their Priory Grove,
Viewed while the moon cheer’d, calmly bright,
The freshness of a summer’s night.

5S

pa/je joy.

MOUNTAIN , near BMKriKNOt’K ll'om the PAIIOK'Y WOODS

THE BANKS OF WYE.

107

High o’er the town, in morning smiles.
The blue Vann heav’d his deep defiles;

And rang’d, like champions for the fight.
Basking in sun-beams on our right.

Rose the Black Mountains, that surround
That far-fam’d spot of holy ground,

IiL anthony, dear to monkish tale.

And still the pride of Ewais Vale.

No road-side cottage smoke was seen.

Or rarely, on the village green
No youths appear’d, in spring-tide dress.

In ardent play, or idleness.

Brown wav’d the harvest, dale and slope
Exulting bore a nation’s hope;

Sheaves rose as far as sight could range.

And every mile was but a change

71

108

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Of peasants lab’ring, laboring still, 87

And climbing many a distant hill.

Some talk’d, perhaps, of spring’s bright hour.

And how they pil’d, in Bruinless Tower*,

The full- dried hay. Perhaps they told
Tradition’s tales, and taught how old
The ruin’d castle? False or true.

They guess’d it,— -just as others do.

Lone tower ! though suffer’d yet to stand.
Dilapidation’s wasting hand
Shall tear thy pond’rous walls, to guard
The slumb’ring steed, or fence the yard;

* The only remaining tower of Brunless Castle novr
makes an excellent hay-loft; and almost every building on
the spot is composed of fragments.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

109

Or wheels shall grind thy pride away
Along the turnpike road to Hay,

Where fierce Glendow’rs rude mountaineers
Left war’s attendants, blood and tears.

And spread their terrors many a mile.

And shouted round the flaming pile.

May heav’n preserve our native land
From blind ambition’s murdering hand;

From all the wrongs that can provoke ,

A people’s wrath, and urge the stroke

That shakes the proudest throne! Guard heav’n

The sacred birth-right thou hast given;

Bid j ustice curb, with strong controul,

The desp’rate passions of the soul.

Here ivy’d fragments, lowering, throw
Broad shadows on the poor below,

99

110

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Who, while they rest, and when they die,
Sleep on the rock-built shores of Wye.

To tread o’er nameless mounds of earth.
To muse upon departed worth.

To credit still the poor distress’d.

For feelings never half express’d.

Their hopes, their faith, their tender love.
Faith that sustain’d, and hope that strove.
Is sacred joy; to heave a sigh,

A debt to poor mortality.

Funereal rites are clos’d; ’tis done;

Ceas’d is the bell; the priest is gone;
What then if bust or stone denies
To catch the pensive loit’rer’s eyes.

What course can poverty pursue?

What can the poor pretend to do?

115

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Ill

O boast not, quarries, of your store; 131

Boast not, O man, of wealth or lore.

The flowers of nature here shall thrive.

Affection keep those flowers alive ;

And they shall strike the melting heart.

Beyond the utmost power of art;

Planted on graves*, their stems entwine.

And every blossom is a line
Indelibly impress’d, that tends.

In more than language comprehends.

* To the custom of scattering flowers over the graves of
departed friends, David ap Gwillym beautifully alludes in
one of his odes. “ O whilst thy season of flowers, and thy
tender sprays thick of leaves remain, 1 will pluck the roses
from the brakes, the flowerets of the meads, and gems of
the wood; the vivid trefoil, beauties of the ground, and

in

THE BANKS OF WYE.

To teach us, in our solemn hours, 141

That we ourselves are dying flowers.

What if a father buried here
His earthly hope, his friend most dear.

His only child? Shall his dim eye.

At poverty’s command, be dry ?

No, he shall muse, and think, and pray.

And weep his tedious hours away ;

Or weave the song of woe to tell.

How dear that child he lov’d so well.

the gaily-smiling bloom of the verdant herbs, to be offer-
ed to the memory of a chief of fairest fame. Humbly
will 1 lay them on the grave of Ivor.”

On a grave in the church-yard at Hay, or the Hay, ag
it is commonly spoken, flowers had evidently been plant-
ed, but only one solitary sprig of sweet-briar had taken

root.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

113

MARY'S GRAVE.

No child have I left, I must wander alone, 151
No light-hearted Mary to sing as I go.

Nor loiter to gather bright flowers newly blown.
She delighted, sweet maid, in these emblems of
woe.

Then the stream glided by her, or playfully boil’d
O’er its rock-bed unceasing, and still it flows free;
But her infant life was arrested, unsoil’d

As the dew-drop, wThen shook by the wing of the
bee.

I

114

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Sweet flowers were her treasures, and flowers shall
he mine; 159

l bring them from Radnor’s green hills to her
grave;

Thus planted in anguish, oh let them entwine
O’er a heart once as gentle as heav’n e’er gave.

Oh, the glance of her eye, when at mansions of wealth
I pointed, suspicious, and warn’d her of harm ;

She smil’d in content, ’midst the bloom of her health.
And closer and closer still hung on my arm.

What boots it to tell of the sense she possess’d.
The fair buds of promise that mem’ry endears ?

The mild dove, affection, was queen of her breast.
And I had her love, and her truth, and her tears;

THE BANKS OF WYE.

11*

She was mine. But she goes to the land of the
good, 171

A change which I must, and yet dare not de-
plore ;

Pll bear the rude shock like the oak of the wood.
But the green hills of Radnor will charm me no
more.

Ruins of greatness, all farewell;

No Chepstows here, no Raglands tell.

By mound, or foss, or mighty tower.

Achievements high in hall or bower;

Or give to fancy’s vivid eye.

The helms and plumes of chivalry.

Clifford has fall’n, howe’er sublime,.

Mere fragments wrestle still with time;;

116

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Yet as they perish, sure and slow, IBS

And rolling dash the stream below.

They raise tradition’s glowing scene.

The clue of silk, the wrathful queen.

And link, in memory’s firmest bond.

The love-lorn tale of Rosamond*.

How placid, how divinely sweet.

The flow’r-grown brook that, by our feet.

Winds on a summer’s day; e’en where
Its name no classic honours share.

Its springs untrac’d, its course unknown.

Seaward for ever rambling down !

* Clifford Castle is supposed to have been the birtb
place of Fair Rosamond.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

117

Here, then, how sweet, pellucid, chaste;
*Twas this bright current bade us taste
The fulness of its joy. Glide still.
Enchantress of Plynlimon Hill,
Meandering Wye! Still let me dream.
In raptures, o’er thy infant stream ;

For could th’ immortal soul forego
Its cumbrous load of earthly woe.

And clothe itself in fairy guise.

Too small, too pure, for human eyes.
Blithe would we seek thy utmost spring,
Where mountain-larks first try the wing ;
There, at the crimson dawn of day.
Launch a scoop’d leaf, and sail away,
Stretch’d at our ease, or crouch below.

Or climb the green transparent prow.

195

118

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Stooping where oft the blue bell sips
The passing stream, and shakes and dips ;
And when the heifer came to drink.

Quick from the gale our bark would shrink.
And huddle down amidst the brawl
Of many a five-inch waterfall.

Till the expanse should fairly give
The bow’ring hazel room to live;

And as each swelling junction came.

To form a rivulet worth a name.

We’d dart beneath, or brush away
Long-beaded webs, that else might stay
Our silent course; in haste retreat.

Where whirlpools near the bull-rush meet;
Wheel round the ox of monstrous size;

And count below his shadowy flies;

211

THE BANKS OF WYE.

119

And sport amidst the throng; and when 227
We met the barks of giant men,,

Avoid their oars, still undescried.

And mock their overbearing pride ;

Then vanish by some magic spell,

And shout, “ Delicious Wye, farewell !”

’Twas noon, when o'er thy mountain stream.
The carriage roll'd, each powerful gleam
Struck on thy surface, where, below,

Spread the deep heavVs azure glow;

And water-flowers, a mingling croud,

Wrav'd in the dazzling silver cloud.

Again farewell ! The treat is o'er !

For me shall Cambria smile no more;

Yet truth shall still the song sustain.

And touch the springs of joy again.

120

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Hail ! land of cyder, vales of health !
Redundant fruitage, rural wealth;

Here, did Pomona still retain
Her influence o’er a British plain.

Might temples rise, spring blossoms fly,
Round the capricious deity ;

Or autumn sacrifices bound.

By myriads, o’er the halknv’d ground.
And deep libations still renew
The fervours of her dancing cre w.

Land of delight ! let mem’ry strive
To keep thy flying scenes alive ;

Thy grey-limb’d orchards, scattering wide

*

Their treasures by the highway side:

Thy half-hid cottages, that show
The dark green moss, the resting bough.

243

THE BANKS OF WYE.

121

At broken panes, that taps and flies.
Illumes and shades the maiden's eyes
At day-break, and, with whisper'd joy.
Wakes the light-hearted shepherd boy:
These, with thy noble woods and dells.
The hazel copse, the village bells.

Charm’d m»re the passing sultry hours
Than Hereford, with all her towers.

Sweet was the rest, with welcome cheer.
But a far nobler scene was near;

And when the morrow’s noon had spread.
O'er orchard stores, the deep’ning red.
Behind us rose the billowy cloud.

That dims the air to city croud.

And deem not that, where cyder reigns
The beverage of a thousand plains,

259

122 THE banks of wye.

Malt, and the liberal harvest horn, 275

Are all unknown, or laugh’d to scorn ;

A spot that all delights might bring
A palace for an eastern king.

Can from e*, shall from her vaults display
John Barleycorn’s resistless sway.

To make the odds of fortune even.

Up bounc’d the cork of “ seventy -seven”

And sent me back to school; for then *

Ere yet I learn’d to wield the pen;

(The pen that should all crimes assail.

The pen that leads to fame — or jail;)

Then steem’d the malt, whose spirit bears
The frosts and suns of thirty years 1

* The noble seat of Richard Cope Hopton, Esq. which
exhibits, in a striking manner, the real old English mag-
nificence and hospitality of the last age.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

123

Through Ledbury, at decline of day, 289
The wheels that bore us, roll'd away
To cross the Malvern Hills. 'Twas night;
Alternate met the weary sight
Each steep, dark, undulating brow.

And Worcester's gloomy vale below.

Gloomy no more, when eastward sprung
The light that gladdens heart and tongue;

When morn glanc'd o'er the shepherd's bed.

And cast her tints of lovely red
Wide o’er the vast expanding scene.

And mix'd her hues with mountain green ;

Then, gazing from a height so fair.

Through miles of unpolluted air.

Where cultivation triumphs wide.

O'er boundless views on every side?

124

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Thick planted towns, where toils ne’er cease, 305
And far spread silent village peace;

As each succeeding pleasure came.

The heart acknowledg’d Malvern’s fame.

Oft glancing thence to Cambria still.

Thou yet wert seen, my fav’rite hill.

Delightful Pen-y-Vale ! Nor shall
Great Malvern’s high imperious call
Wean me from thee, or turn aside
My earliest charm, my heart’s strong pride.

Boast Malvern, that thy springs revive
The drooping patient, scarce alive;

Where, as he gathers strength to toil,

Not e’en thy heights his spirit foil.

But nerve him on to bless, t’ inhale.

And triumph in the morning gale;

THE BANKS OF WYE.

125

Or noon's transcendant glories give
The vigorous touch that bids him live.
Perhaps e'en now he stops to breathe.
Surveying the expanse beneath ?

Now climbs again, where keen winds blow.
And holds his beaver to his brow;

Waves to the Wrecken his pale hand.

And, borrowing Fancy’s magic wand.

Skims over Worcester's spires away.
Where sprung the blush of rising day;.

And eyes with joy, sweet Hagley Groves ,
That taste reveres and virtue loves;

And stretch’d upon thy utmost ridge,

Marks Severn's course, and UPTON-bridge,
That leads to home, to friends, or wife.

And all thy sweets, domestic life :

321

126

THE BANKS OF WYE.

While starts the tear, his bosom glows.

That consecrated Avon flows
Down the blue distant vale, to yield
Its stores by Tewkesbury's deadly field.
And feels whatever can inspire.

From history's page or poet's fire.

Bright vale of Severn! shall the song
That wildly devious roves along.

The charms of nature to explore.

On history rest, or themes of yore P
More joy the thoughts of home supply.

Short be the glance at days gone by.

Though gallant Tewkesbury, clean and gay.
Hath much to tempt the traveller’s stay.

337

THE BANKS OF WYE.

127

Her noble abbey, with its dead, S51

A powerful claim : a silent dread.

Sacred as holy virtue springs

Where rests the dust of chiefs and kings;

With his who by foul murder died.

The fierce Lancastrian’s hope and pride,

(When brothers brothers could destroy)

Heroic Margaret’s red-rose boy*.

Muse, turn thee from the field of blood.

Rest to the brave, peace to the good;

Avon , with all thy charms, adieu !

For Cheltenham mocks thy pilgrim crew;

* Prince Edward, son of Henry the Sixth, taken pri-
soner with his mother, Margaret of Anjou, at the battle
of Tewkesbury, and murdered by the Duke of Glouces -
ter, afterwards Richard the Third,

128 THE BANKS OF WYE.

And like a girl in beauty’s power, 363

Flirts in the fairings of an hour.

Queen of the valley ! soon behind
Gleam’d thy bright fanes, in sun and wind.

Fair Glo’ster. Though thy fabric stands,*

The boast of Severn’s winding sands,

If grandeur, beauty, grace, can stay
The traveller on his homeward way.

There rests the Norman prince who rose
In zeal against the Christian’s foes.

Yet doom’d at home to pine and die.

Of birthright rob’d, and liberty ;

His tide of wrongs he could not stem.

His brothers filch’d his diadem*.

* The eldest son of William the Conqueror was impri-
soned eight-and-twenty years by his own brother!

THE BANKS OF WYE.

129

There sleeps the king who aim’d to spurn 377
The daring Scots, at Bannockburn,

But turn’d him back with humbled fame.

And Berkley's “ shrieks *” declare his name.

Cease, cease the lay— the goal is won —

Yet memory still shall revel on.

Fast clos’d the day, the last bright hour.

The setting sun, on Dursley tower.

Welcom’d us home, and forward bade.

To Uley valley’s peaceful shade.

Who so unfeeling, who so bold.

To judge that fictions, idly told.

* " Shrieks of an agonising king.17

ISO

THE BANKS OF WYE.

Deform my verse, that only tries
To consecrate realities ?

If e’er th’ unworthy thought should come.
Let strong conviction strike them dumb.

Go to the proof; your steed prepare.

Drink nature’s cup, the rapture share ;

If dull you find your devious course.

Your tour is useless — sell your horse.

Ye who, ingulph’d in trade, endure
What gold alone can never cure;

The constant sigh for scenes of peace.

From the world’s trammels free release.
Wait not, (for reason’s sake attend,)

Wait not in chains till times shall mend;
Till the clear voice, grown hoarse and gruff,
Cries, “Now I’ll go. I’m rich enough;”

389

THE BANKS OF WYE*

131

Youth, and the prime of manhood, seize.
Steal ten days absence, ten days ease ;
Bid ledgers from your minds depart ;

Let mem’ry’s treasures cheer the heart;
And when your children round you grow.
With opening charms and manly brow.
Talk of the Wye as some old dream.

Call it the wild, the wizard stream ;

Sink in your broad arm-chair to rest.

And youth shall smile to see you bless’d.

Artists, betimes your powers employ.
And take the pilgrimage of joy ;

The eye of genius may behold
A thousand beauties here untold ;

Rock, that defies the winter’s storm;
Wood, in its most imposing form.

405

THE BANKS OF WYE.

132

That climbs the mountain, bows below.
Where deep th’ unsullied waters flow.

Here Gilpin’s eye, transported, s can’d
Views by no tricks of fancy plan’d ;

Gray here, upon the stream reclin’d.

Stor’d with delight his ardent mind.

But let the vacant trifler stray
From thy enchantments far away ;

For should, from fashion’s rainbow train.

The idle and the vicious vain.

In sacrilege presume to move
Through these dear scenes of peace and love.
The spirit of the stream would rise
In wrathful mood, and tenfold size.

And nobly guard his Coldwell Spring,
And bid his inmost caverns ring;

421

THE BANKS OF WYE.

133

Loud thund’ring on the giddy crew,

“My stream was never meant for you.”

But ye, to nobler feelings born.

Who sense and nature dare not scorn.

Glide gaily on, and ye shall find
The blest serenity of mind
That springs from silence; or shall raise
The hand, the eye, the voice of praise.

Live then, sweet stream ! and henceforth be
The darling of posterity;

Lov’d for thyself, for ever dear.

Like beauty’s smile and virtue’s tear.

Till Time his striding race give o’er.

And verse itself shall charm no more.

437

THE END,

... ;

'

■

•• *, :i 1

LATELY PUBLISHED,

NEW EDITIONS OF THE FOLLOWING WORKS.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR,

Embellished with fine Wood Engravings .

1.

The Farmer’s Boy, a Rural Poem, 4s. boards.

2.

Rural Tales, Ballads and Songs, 4s. boards.
3.

Wild Flowers, or Pastoral and Local Poetry.—
Cuts, 4s. 6d. extra boards.

Also a Stereotype Edition of his Works , in 2
vols, demy 18 mo, with Wood Cuts , containing

The Farmer’s Boy, Rural Tales, Wild
Flowers, and Good Tidings from the
Farm.

PRINTED BY J. SWAN,

76, FLEET STREET, LONDON.